


Death! Plop. The barges down in the river flop

by somnolentblue



Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnolentblue/pseuds/somnolentblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think we've encountered something that's more in line with your job description than ours," Eliot said. "Could you get out to DC soon? Like now?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death! Plop. The barges down in the river flop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itzaimster](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=itzaimster).



> Title taken from "A Tragedy" by Theophile Marzials, which some dub the worst poem in the English language.  
> Written for as part of 's Lightning Round:V-gift Boogaloo. She prompted me with "Dean Winchester/Parker trying to work together," further clarified as "Dean trying and not getting anywhere. ;)" This is Take Two of that prompt; it sort of grew and morphed in the writing.  
> Feedback is love, and concrit is welcomed.

Sympathy for the Devil blared out from Sam's phone, and Dean grinned as he caught Sam's sour look out of the corner of his eye. The apocalypse had been averted, and they both needed to lighten up. Dean's carefully planned campaign of harassment and teasing was precisely calibrated to achieve exactly that result.

Sam frowned at the screen before hitting the talk button. "Hello?"

Dean didn't like the tenor of Sam's voice; it was how he sounded when he didn't know who was on the other end of the phone, and nobody except Bobby had these phone numbers yet. He smacked Sam's arm so that he'd put it on speaker.

"- Spencer, we met a couple years back in Palo Alto."

"Eliot, hey, what's up?" Hearing an unfamiliar name, Dean glanced over from behind the steering wheel and made the _who the fuck are you talking to, what have I told you about talking to strangers_ face he'd been perfecting since Sam was five and started regularly talking to non-Winchester people. Okay, at the time Sam had been curious about how tootsie rolls got into tootsie pops, but the kid still shouldn't have been talking to strangers, even people with the awesome candy manufacturing jobs.

"I think we've encountered something that's more in line with your job description than ours," the tinny voice said. "Could you get out to DC soon? Like now?"

"Ours?" Dean queried, wary of meeting an unknown number of people who had inexplicably acquired Sam's phone number, even if Sam trusted one of them. Sam made stupid decisions sometimes.

"My brother, Dean," Sam explained.

"I'm Eliot; Sam and I ran into each other a few years back when we were both tackling some werewolves."

Dean threw Sam a sharp glance, unimpressed that he hadn't shared the news about that little excursion. However, Dean would find out all the details later, after yelling at Sam for taking on werewolves with an unknown partner.

"Anyway, I hooked up with a team a few years back and shifted my business plans a bit."

"Hang on a minute." Sam poked Dean's arm to get his attention and mouthed "DC?" at him. Dean shrugged, perfectly willing to go and maneuver Sam into dragging him along to some cultural shit afterwards. Dean would score awesome big brother points, Sammy would feel pleased at one-upping his brother, and they would both come out ahead.

"Sure, we'll be there by tomorrow night," Sam said. "It'll probably be kind of late, so I'll call you Wednesday morning."

"No, man, call me whenever you get in tomorrow night. This is kind of time sensitive."

"Okay, I'll talk to you then." The connection abruptly dropped, and Sam was left staring at the phone in his hands.

"Get out the map, bitch, find me the best way to DC," Dean instructed.

"Jerk," Sam muttered, but started mucking around on his phone anyway.

* * *

Dean settled back into the booth at The Peregrine as they waited for Sophie and Nate to show up and run through the plan yet again. Frankly, Dean thought it was kind of ridiculous – improv had served him and Sam just fine for years – but whatever, they were bankrolling this little venture and buying all the beer. Nate couldn't even talk as a result of the crazy ass curse they had triggered, but he'd still insisted on showing up and trying to boss them around with his little pad of paper. At least there was nice scenery; watching Parker knocking balls around the pool table was a fine pastime.

"Dibs on working with the hot blonde chick," he said.

"Oh, man, you did not just say that," Hardison said.

"What? She's hot and she's blonde and she's a chick – my description is perfectly accurate."

"Parker's not a hot blonde chick," Eliot explained, "she's Parker. You know _Alice in Wonderland_?"

"Yee-ah," Dean replied.

Hardison picked up Eliot's train of thought. "Take all the wacked out wackness of Wonderland, put it in a lithe and flexible frame, and you get Parker."

"Flexible, hmmm," Dean purred. "I can work with that."

Hardison's head thumped down on the table, and Eliot smirked. "It's your funeral man. I'll bring the popcorn, Hardison'll record it for posterity, and Sam'll hold it over your head forever, but whatever you want to do."

Dean grinned. "This is gonna be awesome," he proclaimed. Getting up, he sauntered over to Parker, who had just sunk the eight ball. "Hey sweetheart," he greeted her.

Suddenly, Dean was flat on his back on the pool table with her hand on his throat.

"You're cute and freckly and smell good," she said, "but my name isn't sweetheart."

Dean looked over at Eliot and Hardison, who were slouched in the booth grinning at him. Eliot tipped his beer bottle towards Dean. "She gets that from me," he called out. Dean gave a tight grin, sincerely hoping that Hardison hadn't actually recorded it on that ridiculous phone of his.

Parker removed her hand from his throat and patted his neck. He stood up, rubbing his neck. "Right, not sweetheart. Got it."

He thrust his hand out. "Dean," he said, since they hadn't been formally introduced earlier; she'd just lurked around, perching on whatever piece of furniture was in the vicinity.

"Parker," she replied.

"So, darlin', it looks like we're going to be breaking into a museum together."

"We're not breaking into a museum, we're breaking into a case _in_ the museum. There's a difference. One requires the precision and the excellency of a trained specialist. The other just requires you not to get us caught."

"Hey," Dean protested, "I am a professional! I've been salting and burning illicitly gained goods since I was eight!"

"Oh, please, talk to me when you've successfully stolen the Hope diamond." With that, she sauntered off, leaving Dean looking at her retreating backside and ignoring Eliot and Hardison's laughter. He didn't care what they thought, this was going to be awesome.

* * *

Parker opened her hotel door after Dean's knock. "Oh," she said, "it's you." She shut the door in his face, and he stared it for a moment before knocking again. She didn't answer, so he just stood there looking like a dumbass in his tux. (He had to admit that it was nice wearing a tux that was tailored to fit instead of one stolen off the rack because it more or less worked. Maybe he and Sammy should look into alternative lines of revenue themselves.) After a few minutes, she opened the door and emerged, walking towards the elevators without a pause. Dean took stock of her tight red dress and strappy heels and grinned. He was right, totally awesome.

"Are you coming," she threw out over her shoulder.

He scrambled to catch up. "Right behind you," he claimed.

"After two point five seconds," she pointed out, hitting the down button.

"What?"

"It took two point five seconds for your brain and your legs to communicate and for you to be right behind me. Sophie, do I _have_ to work with him?"

"Wait, where's your Sophieupagus?" he asked, perplexed by her query.

She rolled her eyes and pulled something out of her purse as they stepped on the elevator. "Here," she said, thrusting out her palm with some funky thing on it. "Take your earbud. Sam said you'd forget it, so they gave me an extra."

Disgruntled, Dean took it and put it in his ear.

"- bucks man," Sam's voice came over it. "I told you he'd forget. Guns, yes, salt, yes, Zippo, never goes anywhere without it. But not the earbud."

"Hey," Dean protested, "you're betting against me. Way to show brotherly solidarity man."

Dean could hear Sam's grin when he replied. "But just think, Dean, this way I won't have to raid the cash to buy my latte tomorrow morning after this fun night of gravedigging. Should I share my spoils with the Impala and get an air freshener for her? Maybe a nice evergreen one from the 7-11?"

"You so much as think of bringing that crap into my car, and I'll leave you and your stupid coffee at the 7-11. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a gorgeous lady to escort to the ball."

"Twenty says that he's wearing wine by the end of the evening," Dean heard Eliot say to Sam.

"Not gonna happen," Sam replied. "He's a flirt, but he's not a cad."

Grinning at Sam's response, Dean tuned them out and followed Parker out of the elevator and into the limo waiting for them. (He really could get used to this being rich thing. His baby was more awesome, of course, but not having to park in DC was freakin' fabulous.)

"Okay," he said, settling down into the plush seat, "game time."

"It's not a game," she said, "it's committing an act of larceny followed by some light arson to rid the world of the cursed remains of a truly terrible nineteenth-century poet."

"No wonder it took me so long to clean up your files, you treat this shit as a joke," Hardison commented from his station in the van. "Jimmy Page, Angus Young, Steven Taylor – are you crazy?" Dean was really starting to hate the earbud.

* * *

Dean placed his hand at the small of Parker's back as they meandered around the gallery, looking the collection and pretending to murmur in amazement over the displays.

"We're in position," Parker muttered.

"Ready to kick some ass," Dean added, nodding at Sophie when he saw her schmoozing a muckity muck on the other side of the gallery.

"I gotta say, though, I've kind of liked the quiet around the office lately," Eliot said. "You think we could keep that side effect for a little while longer?"

"Sorry, dude," Dean responded. "Parker and I are going to torch this little doodad-"

"Mourning jewelry, " Sam chimed in, "it's Victorian mourning jewelry."

"Yeah, whatever Sammy, doodad made of the guy's hair, and then the curse'll be done."

"You know, it could be Eliot and myself who strike the final blow when we torch his bones."

"Anyone crazy enough to have their hair turned into a ring is crazy enough to curse it. Gross."

"Actually, it was quite common-"

"You know," Eliot broke in, "I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to do your little educational hour, but it would be nice if you'd watch my back while I'm doing this shit."

"I could dig, and you could watch out for the ghost," Sam offered.

"I don't like guns," Eliot replied tartly, and conversation ceased on their end. Dean was thrilled that, for once, he wasn't going to be the one going home with grave dust on his clothes. Free booze, pretty women, free food – it was shaping up to be an awesome evening.

Suddenly, Dean was covered with wine. "You cad!" Parker exclaimed. "How dare you sleep with my sister!"

Dean watched as she stormed off, bewildered and with wine dripping off of his nose.

"Go after her!" Hardison said. Dean scrambled to obey, wondering what had set her off. His hands had stayed above her waist, his innuendoes had remained PG, and he certainly hadn't slept with her sister.

He was looking for her in a deserted hallway – it looked like staff office space – when he was abruptly pulled into a storage room.

"Took you long enough," Parker said. "Your brain and legs have trouble communicating a lot. Are you sure you've done this before?"

"What on earth were you thinking?" Dean sputtered. "The idea is to do this low-key so people forget about us."

"Sophie needed a distraction. Here." She held out her hand, and the ring sat in the center of her palm.

"How did you get that? You were with me the whole time."

"Mysterious are the ways of Parker," Eliot intoned.

Suddenly, Dean heard a shotgun go off. "Sam!"

"We're okay, just torch that fucking thing, okay?"

"On it," he replied. "Hardison, disable the smoke detectors. Parker, find me some stone or marble or something." She pointed at the marble slab on a nearby shelf. "Right. Can you read Latin?"

"No."

"Shit, okay, take this," he passed her the satchet of herbs that had been in his pocket all evening, "and put the ring on the stone, sprinkle them over the ring, add the salt. When I nod, torch the fucking thing."

"Matches?" He passed her his Zippo and started reading. The lights flickered, but apparently losing his bones had made the ghost more impotent because there was a distinctive lack of flying debris. When Dean reached the bit about sacred flames and purification, he nodded at Parker who immediately flicked the Zippo and held the flame to the ring. It immediately started burning in pretty colors, and the fire died out as Dean finished up the incantation.

"That doesn't happen," Parker said. "That was gold. A Zippo doesn't catch gold on fire. Is it a magic Zippo?"

"Parker, give me the Zippo back." She pouted at him, but he had learned to resist Sammy's pleading eyes – Parker's held no power over him.

"Fine, it's in your pocket."

"It's not in my pocket, you still have it."

"I don't know, man," Hardison broke in, "I'd check my pockets if I were you."

Exasperated, Dean patted his pockets. "What the fuck?"

"Mysterious are the ways of Parker," Hardison said. "Now, go back there and socialize until Sophie's done with Mr. Smythe-Barquer."

Grumbling, Dean followed Parker back into the gallery.

* * *

Dean stormed into the backroom of The Peregrine, his bowtie undone around his neck and his jacket clutched in his hand.

"That was awful!" he growled, tossing his jacket on the table and stealing Sam's beer.

"Thought you said it was gonna be awesome," Hardison said. "_I_ thought it was awesome."

"She threw wine on me!"

"It was white wine," Parker pointed out, "so you have a chance of wearing that tux again."

"Wine! And then I had to schmooze with people! The men were either giving me pitying looks or cheering me on for bagging Parker _and_ her sister, and the women wouldn't talk to me! These stupid shoes gave me blisters! The wine was that vile chardonnay shit! The food was gross!"

Sam salted the popcorn sitting in the middle of the table and grabbed a handful. "I thought it was pretty awesome, although not worth the twenty buck admission. Which, by the way, you people rigged. I call foul, and y'all owe me a forfeit." Sam tossed some of his popcorn at Eliot's forehead and then shoved the rest of it in his mouth.

"You _saw_ that?" Dean asked.

Hardison pointed a remote at TV on the wall. A view of the interior of the museum appeared, complete with waiters, little snacks, and people in overpriced clothing. Dean saw Sophie, who had exited on Smythe-Barquer's arm before they had escaped, wander into the screen and groaned. "I hacked the security feeds," he explained. "Age of the geek, baby."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Death! Plop. The barges down in the river flop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/668443) by [Princess2000204 (Lena204)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena204/pseuds/Princess2000204)




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